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THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS, 


AND  OTHEK  POEMS. 


JOHN  GEEENLEAF  IWHITTIEB. 


wi: 


BOSTPN: 

HOUGHTOX,  MIFfTtN  AND   COMPANY. 

"^  New  York:    11   East   Seventeenth   Street 

jsitJe  |3ress, 

1883. 


Copyright,  1883, 
Br  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WUITTIER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Prefs,  Cambridge: 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Iloughton  and  Company. 


STACK  ANNEX 
PS 


To 
EDWIN  P.  WHIFFLE, 

ONE    OP   THE    FIRST   TO    WELCOME    MY    EARLIEST   VOLUME, 

I  OFFER  THE  LATEST, 

AS    A    TOKEN    OF    FRIENDSHIP    NEVER    INTERRUPTED, 
AND  WHICH  YEARS  HAVE  ONLY  STRENGTHENED. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

To  H.  P.  S 9 

THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS 11 

HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER          .         .         .20 

A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE 29 

THE  Eocii-ToMB  OF  BRADORE 34 

STORM  ON  LAKE  ASQUAM 38 

THE  WISHING  BRIDGE 40 

THE  MYSTIC'S  CHRISTMAS 44 

WHAT  THE  TRAVELER  SAID  AT  SUNSET       .        .        .47 

A  GREETING 50 

WILSON 53 

IN  MEMORY 56 

THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN 60 

KABBI  ISHMAEL 63 

VALUATION 65 

WINTER  ROSES 67 

HYMN  .69 


viii  CONTENTS. 

GODSPEED     »••••••.        .72 

AT  LAST   . .        .        „    73 

OUR  COUNTRY      „ ,75 

THE  "STORY  OF  IDA"    .......    81 

AN  AUTOGRAPH 82 


To  H.  P.  S. 

FROM  the   green  Amesbury   Mil    which   bears 

the  name 

Of  that  half  mythic  ancestor  of  mine 
Who  trod  its  slopes  two  hundred  years  ago, 
Down  the  long  valley  of  the  Merrimac 
Midway  between  me  and  the  river's  mouth, 
I  see  thy  home,  set  like  an  eagle's  nest 
Among  Deer  Island's  immemorial  pines, 
Crowning  the  crag  on  which  the  sunset  breaks 
Its  last  red  arrow.     Many  a  tale  and  song, 
Which  thou  hast  told  or  sung,  I  call  to  mind, 
Softening  with  silvery  mist  the  woods  and  hills, 
The  out-thrust  headlands  and  in-reaching  bays 
Of  our  northeastern  coast-line,   trending  where 
The  Gulf,  midsummer,  feels  the  chill  blockade 
Of  icebergs  stranded  at  its  northern  gate. 

To  thee  the  echoes  of  the  Island  Sound 


10  TO  n.  p.  s. 

Answer  not  vainly,  nor  in  vain  the  moan 

Of  the  South  Breaker  prophesying  storm. 

And  thou  hast  listened,  like  myself,  to  men 

Sea-periled  oft  where  Anticosti  lies 

Like  a  fell  spider  in  its  web  of  fog, 

Or  where  the  Grand    Bank  shallows  with  the 

wrecks 

Of  sunken  fishers ;  and  to  whom  strange  isles 
And  frost-rimmed  bays    and    trading    stations 

seem 

Familiar  as  Great  Neck  and  Kettle  Cove, 
Nubble  and  Boon,  the  common  names  of  home. 

So  let  me  offer  thee  this  lay  of  mine, 

Simple  and  homely,  lacking  much  thy  play 

Of  color  and  of  fancy.     If  its  theme 

And  treatment  seem  to  thee  befitting  youth 

Rather  than  age,  let  this  be  my  excuse : 

It  has  beguiled  some  heavy  hours  and  called 

Some  pleasant  memories  up ;  and,  better  still, 

Occasion  lent  me  for  a  kindly  word 

To  one  who  is  my  neighbor  and  my  friend. 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 


THE  skipper  sailed  out  of  the  harbor  mouth, 
Leaving  the  apple-bloom  of  the  South 
For  the  ice  of  the  Eastern  seas, 
In  his  fishing  schooner  Breeze. 

Handsome  and  brave  and  young  was  he, 
And  the  maids  of  Newbury  sighed  to  see 

His  lessening  white  sail  fall 

Under  the  sea's  blue  wall. 

Through    the    Northern    Gulf    and    the  misty 

screen 
Of  the  isles  of  Mingan  and  Madeleine, 

St.  Paul's  and  Blanc  Sablon, 

The  little  Breeze  sailed  on, 


12  THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

Backward  and  forward,  along  the  shore 
Of  lorn  and  desolate  Labrador, 

And  found  at  last  her  way 

To  the  Seven  Islands  Bay. 

The  little  hamlet,  nestling  below 
Great  hills  white  with  lingering  snow, 
With  its  tin-roofed  chapel  stood 
Half  hid  in  the  dwarf  spruce  wood ; 

Green-turfed,  flower-sown,  the  last  outpost 
Of  summer  upon  the  dreary  coast, 

With  its  gardens  small  and  spare, 

Sad  in  the  frosty  air. 

Hard  by  where  the  skipper's  schooner  lay, 
A  fisherman's  cottage  looked  away 

Over  isle  and  bay,  and  behind 

On  mountains  dim-defined. 

And  there  twin  sisters,  fair  and  young, 
Laughed  with  their  stranger  guest,  and  sung 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS.  13 

In  their  native  tongue  the  lays 
Of  the  old  Proven9al  days. 

Alike  were  they,  save  the  faint  outline 
Of  a  scar  on  Suzette's  forehead  fine; 
And  both,  it  so  befell, 
Loved  the  heretic  stranger  well. 

Both  were  pleasant  to  look  upon, 

But  the  heart  of  the  skipper  clave  to  one; 

Though  less  by  his  eye  than  heart 

He  knew  the  twain  apart. 

Despite  of  alien  race  and  creed, 

Well  did  his  wooing  of  Marguerite  speed; 

And  the  mother's  wrath  was  vain 

As  the  sister's  jealous  pain. 

The  shrill-tongued  mistress  her  house  forbade, 
And  solemn  warning  was  sternly  said 

By  the  black-robed  priest,  whose  word, 

As  law  the  hamlet  heard. 


14  THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

But  half  by  voice  and  half  by  signs 
The  skipper  said,  "  A  warm  sun  shines 

On  the  green-banked  Merrimac ; 

Wait,  watch,  till  I  come  back. 

"And  when  you  see,  from  my  mast  head, 
The  signal  fly  of  a  kerchief  red, 

My  boat  on  the  shore  shall  wait ; 

Come,  when  the  night  is  late." 

All  !    weighed    with    childhood's     haunts    and 

friends, 
And  all  that  the  home  sky  overbends, 

Did  ever  young  love  fail 

To  turn  the  trembling  scale  ? 

Under  the  night,  on  the  wet  sea  sands, 
Slowly  unclasped  their  plighted  hands : 

One  to  the  cottage  hearth, 

And  one  to  his  sailor's  berth. 

What  was  it  the  parting  lovers  heard  ? 
Nor  leaf,  nor  ripple,  nor  wing  of  bird, 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS.  15 

But  a  listener's  stealthy  tread 
On  the  rock-moss,  crisp  and  dead. 

He  weighed  his  anchor,  and  fished  once  more 
By  the  black  coast-line  of  Labrador ; 

And  by  love  and  the  north  wind  driven, 
Sailed  back  to  the  Islands  Seven. 

In  the  sunset's  glow  the  sisters  twain 
Saw  the  Breeze  come  sailing  in  again ; 

Said  Suzette,  "  Mother  dear, 

The  heretic's  sail  is  here." 

"  Go,  Marguerite,  to  your  room,  and  hide  ; 

Your     door     shall     be     bolted ! "  the     mother 

cried  : 

While  Suzette,  ill  at  ease, 
Watched  the  red  sign  of  the  Breeze. 

At  midnight,  down  to  the  waiting  skiff 
She  stole  in  the  shadow  of  the  cliff; 
And  out  of  the  Bay's  mouth  ran 
The  schooner  with  maid  and  man. 


16  THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

And  all  night  long,  on  a  restless  bed, 

Her  prayers  to  the  Virgin  Marguerite  said ; 

And  thought  of  her  lover's  pain 

Waiting  for  her  in  vain. 

Did  he  pace  the  sands?   Did  he  pause  to  hear 
The  sound  of  her  light  step  drawing  near? 
And,  as  the  slow  hours  passed, 
Would  he  doubt  her  faith  at  last? 

But  when  she  saw  through  the  misty  pane, 
The  morning  break  on  a  sea  of  rain, 

Could  even  her  love  avail 

To  follow  his  vanished  sail? 

Meantime  the  Breeze,  with  favoring  wind, 
Left  the  rugged  Moisic  hills  behind, 

And  heard  from  an  unseen  shore 

The  falls  of  Manitou  roar. 

On  the  morrow's  morn,    in    the     thick,     gray 

weather 
They  sat  on  the  reeling  deck  together, 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS.  17 

Lover  and  counterfeit, 
Of  hapless  Marguerite. 

With  a  lover's  hand,  from  her  forehead  fair 
He  smoothed  away  her  jet-black  hair. 

What  was  it  his  fond  eyes  met? 

The  scar  of  the  false  Suzette ! 

Fiercely  he  shouted :  "  Bear  away 
East  by  north  for  Seven  Isles  Bay ! " 
The  maiden  wept  and  prayed, 
But  the  ship  her  helm  obeyed. 

Once  more  the  Bay  of  the  Isles  they  found: 
They  heard  the  bell  of  the  chapel  sound, 
And  the  chant  of  the  dying  sung 
In  the  harsh,  wild  Indian  tongue. 

A  feeling  of  mystery,  change,  and  awe 
Was  in  all  they  heard  and  all  they  saw : 
Spell-bound  the  hamlet  lay 

In  the  hush  of  its  lonely  bay. 
2 


18  TUE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  cottage  door, 
The  mother  rose  up  from  her  weeping  sore, 

And  with  angry  gestures  met 

The  scared  look  of  Suzette. 

"  Here  is  your  daughter,"  the  skipper  said ; 
"  Give  me  the  one  I  love  instead." 

But  the  woman  sternly  spake  ; 

"  Go,  see  if  the  dead  will  wake ! " 

lie  looked.     Her  sweet  face  still  and  white 
And  strange  in  the  noonday  taper  light, 

She  lay  on  her  little  bed, 

With  the  cross  at  her  feet  and  head. 

In  a  passion  of  grief  the  strong  man  bent 
Down  to  her  face,  and,  kissing  it,  went 

Back  to  the  waiting  Breeze, 

Back  to  the  mournful  seas. 

Never  again  to  the  Merrimac 

And  Newbury's  homes  that  bark  came  back. 


TUE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS.  19 

Whether  her  fate  she  met 
On  the  shores  of  Carraquette, 

Miscou,  or  Tracaclie,  who  can  say? 
But  even  yet  at  Seven  Isles  Bay 

Is  told  the  ghostly  tale 

Of  a  weird,  unspoken  sail, 

In  the  pale,  sad  light  of  the  Northern  day 
Seen  by  the  blanketed  Montagnais, 

Or  squaw,  in  her  small  kyack, 

Crossing  the  spectre's  track. 

On  the  deck  a  maiden  wrings  her  hands  ; 

Pier  likeness  kneels    on  the  gray  coast  sands ; 
One  in  her  wild  despair, 
And  one  in  the  trance  of  prayer. 

She  flits  before  no  earthly  blast, 

The  red  sign  fluttering  from  her  mast, 

Over  the  solemn  seas, 

The  ghost  of  the  schooner  Breeze ! 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT   FROM   DOVER. 

16G2. 

THE  tossing  spray  of  Cocheco's  fall 
Hardened  to  ice  on  its  rocky  wall, 
As  through  Dover  town,  in  the  chill,  gray 

dawn, 
Three  women  passed,  at  the  cart-tail  drawn ! 1 

1  The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  •warrant  issued  by  Ma 
jor  Waldron,  of  Dover,  in  1GG2.  The  Quakers,  as  was 
their  wont,  prophesied  against  him,  and  saw,  as  they  sup 
posed,  the  fulfillment  of  their  prophecy  when,  many  years 
after,  he  was  killed  by  the  Indians. 

To  the  constables  of  Dover,  Hampton,  Salisbury,  Nen-bury, 
Rowley,  Jpswich,  Wenham,  Lynn,  Boston,  Roxlmry,  Ded- 
ham,  and  until  these  vagabond  Quakers  are  carried  out  of 
this  jurisdiction. 

You,  and  every  one  of  you,  are  required,  in  the  King's 
Majesty's  name,  to  take  these  vagabond  Quakers,  Anne 
Column,  Mary  Tomkins,  and  Alice  Ambrose,  and  make 
them  fast  to  the  cart's  tail,  and  driving  the  cart  through 


UO W  THE   WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER.   21 

Bared  to  the  waist  for  the  north  wind's  grip 
And  keener  sting  of  the  constable's  whip, 
The  blood  that  followed  each  hissing  blow 
Froze  as  it  sprinkled  the  winter  snow. 

Priest  and  ruler,  boy  and  maid 
Followed  the  dismal  cavalcade ; 
And  from  door  and  window,  open  thrown, 
Looked  and  wondered  gaffer  and  crone. 

your  several  towns,  to  whip  them  upon  their  naked 
backs  not  exceeding  ten  stripes  apiece  on  each  of  them 
in  each  town  ;  and  so  to  convey  them  from  constable 
to  constable  till  they  are  out  of  this  jurisdiction,  as  you 
will  answer  it  at  your  peril ;  and  this  shall  be  your  war 
rant.  RICHARD  WALDRON. 
Dated  at  Dover,  December  22,  1662. 

This  warrant  was  executed  only  in  Dover  and  Hamp 
ton.  At  Salisbury  the  constable  refused  to  obey  it.  He 
was  sustained  by  the  town's  people,  who  were  under  the 
influence  of  Major  Robert  Pike,  the  leading  man  in  the 
lower  valley  of  the  Merrimac,  who  stood  far  in  advance 
of  his  time,  as  an  advocate  of  religious  freedom,  and  an 
opponent  of  ecclesiastical  authority.  He  had  the  moral 
courage  to  address  an  able  and  manly  letter  to  the  court  at 
Salem,  remonstrating  against  the  witchcraft  trials. 


22     HO  W  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER. 

"  God  is  our  witness,"  the  victims  cried, 
"  We  suffer  for  Him  who  for  all  men  died  ; 
The  wrong  ye  do  has  been  done  before, 
We  bear  the  stripes  that  the  Master  bore 

"And  thou,  O  Richard  Waldron,  for  whom 
We  hear  the  feet  of  a  coming  doom, 
On  thy  cruel  heart   and   thy    hand    of   wrong 
Vengeance  is  sure,  though  it  tarry  long. 

"In  the  light  of  the  Lord,  a  flame  we  see 
Climb  and  kindle  a  proud  roof -tree ; 
And  beneath  it  an  old  man  lying  dead, 
With  stains  of  blood  on  his  hoary  head." 

"  Smite,  Goodman  Hate-Evil !  —  harder  still !  " 
The  magistrate  cried,  "lay  on  with  a  will! 
Drive  out  of  their  bodies  the  Father  of  Lies, 
Who  through  them  preaches  and  prophesies !  " 

So  into  the  forest  they  held  their  way, 
By  winding  river  and  frost-rimmed  bay, 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER.     23 

Over  wind-swept  hills  that  felt  the  beat 
Of  the  winter  sea  at  their  icy  feet. 

The  Indian  hunter,  searching-  his  traps, 
Peered  stealthily  through  the  forest  gaps ; 
And  the  outlying  settler  shook  his  head,  — 
"  They  're  witches  going  to  jail,"  he  said. 

At  last  a  meeting-house  came  in  view ; 
A  blast  on  his  horn  the  constable  blew; 
And  the  boys  of  Hampton  cried  up  and  down, 
"  The  Quakers  have  come !  "  to  the  wondering 
town. 

From  barn  and  woodpile  the  goodman  came  ; 
The  goodwife  quitted  her  quilting  frame, 
"With  her  child  at    her  breast ;    and,  hobbling 

slow, 
The  graudam  followed  to  see  the  show. 

Once  more  the  torturing  whip  was  swung, 
Once  more  keen  lashes  the  bare  flesh  stung. 


24     HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER. 

"  Oh,  spare  !  they  are  bleeding  !  "  a  little  maid 

cried, 
And  covered  her  face  the  sight  to  hide. 

A  murmur  ran  round  the  crowd  :  "  Good  folks," 
Quoth  the  constable,  busy  counting  the  strokes, 
"  No  pity  to  wretches  like  these  is  due, 
They  have  beaten  the  gospel  black  and  blue !  " 

Then  a  pallid  woman,  in  wild-eyed  fear, 
With  her  wooden  noggin  of  milk  drew  near. 
"  Drink,  poor  hearts !  "     A  rude  hand  smote 
Her  draught  away  from  a  parching  throat. 

"  Take  heed,"  one    whispered,    "  they  '11    take 

your  cow 

For  fines,  as  they  took  your  horse  and  plow, 
And  the  bed  from  under  you."  "  Even  so," 
She  said.  "  They  are  cruel  as  death  I  know." 

Then  on  they  passed,  in  the  waning  day, 
Through  Seabrook  woods,  a  weariful  way; 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER.  25 

By  great  salt  meadows  and  sand-hills  bare, 
And  glimpses  of  blue  sea  here  and  there. 

By  the  meeting-house  in  Salisbury  town, 
The  sufferers  stood,  in  the  red  sundown, 
Bare  for  the  lash !     O  pitying  Night, 
Drop  swift  thy  curtain  and  hide  the  sight ! 

With  shame  in  his  eye  and  wrath  on  his  lip 
The  Salisbury  constable  dropped  his  whip. 
"  This  warrant  means  murder  foul  and  red  ; 
Cursed  is  he  who  serves  it,"  he  said. 

"  Show  me  the  order,  and  meanwhile  strike 
A  blow  at  your  peril ! "  said  Justice  Pike. 
Of  all  the  rulers  the  land  possessed, 
Wisest  and  boldest  was  he,  and  best. 

He  scoffed  at  witchcraft ;  the  priest  he  met 
As  man  meets  man ;  his  feet  he  set 
Beyond  his  dark  age,  standing  upright, 
Soul-free,  with  his  face  to  the  morning  light. 


20     110  W  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DO  VER. 

lie  read  the  warrant :  "  These  convey 

From  our  precincts ;    at    every    town  on   the 

way 

Give  each  ten  lashes. "  "  God  judge  the  brute  ! 
I  tread  his  order  under  my  foot ! 

"  Cut    loose    these    poor    ones    and    let    them 

go  5 

Come  what  will  of  it,  all  men  shall  know 
No  warrant  is    good,  though    backed    by    the 

Crown, 
For  whipping  women  in  Salisbury  town ! " 

The  hearts  of  the  villagers,  half  released 
From  creed  of  terror  and  rule  of  priest, 
By  a  primal  instinct  owned  the  right 
Of  human  pity  in  law's  despite. 

For  ruth  and  chivalry  only  slept, 
His  Saxon  manhood  the  yeoman  kept; 
Quicker  or  slower,  the  same  blood  ran 
In  the  Cavalier  and  the  Puritan. 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER.     27 

The  Quakers  sank  on  their  knees  in  praise 
And  thanks.     A  last,  low  sunset  blaze 
Flashed  out  from  under  a  cloud,  and  shed 
A  golden  glory  on  each  bowed  head. 

The  tale  is  one  of  an  evil  time, 

When    souls   were   fettered    and    thought   was 

crime, 

And  heresy's  whisper  above  its  breath 
Meant    shameful    scourging    and    bonds    and 

death ! 

What  marvel  that,  hunted  and  sorely  tried, 
Even  woman  rebuked  and  prophesied, 
And  soft  words  rarely  answered  back 
The  grim  persuasion  of  whip  and  rack! 

If     her     cry    from     the     whipping  -  post     and 

jail 

Pierced  sharp  as  the  Kenite's  driven  nail, 
O  woman,  at  ease  in  these  happier  days, 
Forbear  to  judge  of  thy  sister's  ways! 


28     HOW  THE  WOMEN  WEXT  FROM  DOVER. 

How  much  thy  beautiful  life  may  owe 

To    her    faith    and    courage    thou    canst     not 

know, 

Nor  how  from  the  paths  of  thy  calm  retreat 
She    smoothed   the    thorns   with    her   bleeding 

feet. 


A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

To  kneel  before  some  saintly  shrine, 
To  breathe  the  health  of  airs  divine, 
Or  bathe  where  sacred  rivers  flow, 
The  cowled  and  turbaned  pilgrims  go. 
I  too,  a  palmer,  take,  as  they, 
With  staff  and  scallop-shell  my  way, 
To  feel,  from  burdening  cares  and  ills, 
The  strong  uplifting  of  the  hills. 

The  years  are  many  since,  at  first, 
For  dreamed-of  wonders  all  athirst, 
I  saw  on  Winnepesaukee  fall 
The  shadow  of  the  mountain  wall. 
Ah!  where  are  they  who  sailed  with  me 
The  beautiful  island-studded  sea? 
And  am  I  he  whose  keen  surprise 
Flashed  out  from  such  unclouded  eyes? 


30  A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

Still,  when  the  sun  of  summer  burns, 
My  longing  for  the  hills  returns  ; 
And  northward,  leaving  at  niy  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Merrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  hill-gaps,  mountain-born, 
Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 
The  hunger  of  a  lowland  eye. 

Again  I  see  the  day  decline 
Along  the  ridged  horizon  line ; 
Touching  the  hill-tops,  as  a  nun 
Her  beaded  rosary,  sinks  the  sun. 
One  lake  lies  golden,  which  shall  soon 
Be  silver  in  the  rising  moon  ; 
And  one  the  crimson  of  the  skies 
And  mountain  purple  multiplies. 

With  the  untroubled  quiet  blends 
The  distance-softened  voice  of  friends ; 
The  girl's  light  laugh  no  discord  brings 
To  the  low  song  the  pine-tree  sings; 


A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE.  31 

And,  not  unwelcome,  comes  the  hail 
Of  boyhood  from  his  Hearing  sail. 
The  human  presence  breaks  no  spell, 
And  sunset  still  is  miracle ! 

Calm  as  the  hour,  methinks  I  feel 

A  sense  of  worship  o'er  me  steal; 

Not  that  of  satyr-charming  Pan, 

No  cult  of  Nature  shaming  man, 

Not  Beauty's  self,  but  that  which  lives 

And  shines  through  all  the  veils  it  weaves, — 

Soul  of  the  mountain,  lake,  and  wood, 

Their  witness  to  the  Eternal  Good! 

And  if,  by  fond  illusion,  here 

The  earth  to  heaven  seems  drawing  near, 

And  yon  outlying  range  invites 

To  other  and  serener  heights, 

Scarce  hid  behind  its  topmost  swell, 

The  shining  Mounts  Delectable ! 

A  dream  may  hint  of  truth  no  less 

Than  the  sharp  light  of  wakefulness. 


32  A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

As  through  her  veil  of  incense  smoke 

Of  old  the  spell-rapt  priestess  spoke, 

More  than  her  heathen  oracle, 

May  not  this  trance  of  sunset  tell 

That  Nature's  forms  of  loveliness 

Their  heavenly  archetypes  confess, 

Fashioned  like  Israel's  ark  alone 

From  patterns  in  the  Mount  made  known  ? 

A  holier  beauty  overbroods 
These  fair  and  faint  similitudes; 
Yet  not  unblest  is  he  who  sees 
Shadows  of  God's  realities, 
And  knows  beyond  this  masquerade 
Of  shape  and  color,  light  and  shade, 
And  dawn  and  set,  and  wax  and  wane, 
Eternal  verities  remain. 

O  gems  of  sapphire,  granite  set! 

0  hills  that  charmed  horizons  fret ! 

1  know  how  fair  your  morns  can  break, 
In  rosy  light  on  isle  and  lake; 


A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE.  33 

How  over  wooded  slopes  can  run 
The  noonday  play  of  cloud  and  sun, 
And  evening  droop  her  oriflamme 
Of  gold  and  red  in  still  Asquani. 

The  summer  moons  may  round  again, 
And  careless  feet  these  hills  profane ; 
These  sunsets  waste  on  vacant  eyes 
The  lavish  splendor  of  the  skies ; 
Fashion  and  folly,  misplaced  here, 
Sigh  for  their  natural  atmosphere, 
And  traveled  pride  the  outlook  scorn 
Of  lesser  heights  than  Matterhorn : 

But  let  me  dream  that  hill  and  sky 
Of  unseen  beauty  prophesy; 
And  in  these  tinted  lakes  behold 
The  trailing  of  the  raiment  fold 
Of  that  which,  still  eluding  gaze, 
Allures  to  upward-tending  ways, 
Whose  footprints  make,  wherever  found, 
Our  common  earth  a  holy  ground. 
3 


THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE. 

A  DREAR  and  desolate  shore! 
Where  no  tree  unfolds  its  leaves, 
And  never  the  spring  wind  weaves 
Green  grass  for  the  hunter's  tread ; 
A  land  forsaken  and  dead, 
Where  the  ghostly  icebergs  go 
And  come  with  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  waters  of  Bradore! 

A  wanderer,  from  a  land 

By  summer  breezes  fanned, 

Looked  round  him,  awed,  subdued, 

By  the  dreadful  solitude, 

Hearing  alone  the  cry 

Of  sea-birds  clanging  by, 

The  crash  and  grind  of  the  floe, 


THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE.          35 

Wail  of  wind  and  wash  of  tide. 
"  O  wretched  land !  "  he  cried, 
"Land  of  all  lands  the  worst, 
God  forsaken  and  curst ! 
Thy  gates  of  rock  should  show 

The  words  the  Tuscan  seer 
Read  in  the  Realm  of  Woe: 
Hope  entereth  not  here!" 

Lo!  at  his  feet  there  stood 

A  block  of  smooth  larch  wood, 

Waif  of  some  wandering  wave, 

Beside  a  rock-closed  cave 

By  Nature  fashioned  for  a  grave, 

Safe  from  the  ravening  bear 

And  fierce  fowl  of  the  air, 

Wherein  to  rest  was  laid 

A  twenty  summers'  maid, 

Whose  blood  had  equal  share 

Of  the  lands  of  vine  and  snow, 

Half  French,  half  Eskimo. 

In  letters  uneffaced, 

Upon  the  block  were  traced 


36  THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE. 

The  grief  and  hope  of  man, 
And  thus  the  legend  ran : 

"  We  loved  her  ! 
Words  cannot  tell  how  well! 

We  loved  her  I 

God  loved  her  ! 
And  called  her  home  to  peace  and  rest. 

We  love  her  !  " 

The  stranger  paused  and  read. 
"O  winter  land!"  he  said, 
"  Thy  right  to  be  I  own ; 

God  leaves  thee  not  alone. 

And  if  thy  fierce  winds  blow 

Over  drear  wastes  of  rock  and  snow, 

And  at  thy  iron  gates 

The  ghostly  iceberg  waits, 

Thy  homes  and  hearts  are  dear. 

Thy  sorrow  o'er  thy  sacred  dust 

Is  sanctified  by  hope  and  trust ; 
God's  love  and  man's  are  here. 


THE  ROCK-TOMB   OF  BRADORE.  37 

And  love  where'er  it  goes 
Makes  its  own  atmosphere; 
Its  flowers  of  Paradise 
Take  root  in  the  eternal  ice, 

And  bloom  through  Polar  snows ! " 


STORM  ON  LAKE  ASQUAM. 

A  CLOUD,  like  that  the  old-time  Hebrew  saw 
On  Carmel  prophesying  rain,  began 
To  lift  itself  o'er  wooded  Cardigan, 

Growing  and  blackening.     Suddenly,  a  flaw 

Of  chill  wind  menaced  ;  then  a  strong  blast  beat 
Down  the  long  valley's  murmuring  pines,  and 

woke 
The  noon-dream  of  the  sleeping  lake,  and  broke 

Its  smooth  steel  mirror  at  the  mountains'  feet. 

Thunderous  and  vast,  a  fire-veined  darkness 
swept 

Over  the  rough  pine-bearded  Asquam  range  ; 

A  wraith  of  tempest,  wonderful  and  strange. 
From  peak  to  peak  the  cloudy  giant  stepped. 


STORM   ON  LAKE  ASQUAM.  39 

One  moment,  as  if  challenging  the  storm, 

Chocorua's  tall,  defiant  sentinel 

Looked    from    his   watch  -  tower ;    then    the 

shadow  fell, 
And  the  wild    rain-drift  blotted   out  his  form. 

And  over  all  the  still  unhidden  sun, 

Weaving  its  light  through  slant-blown    veils 

of  rain, 
Smiled  on  the  trouble,  as  hope  smiles  on  pain  ; 

And,  when  the  tumult  and  the  strife  were  done. 

With  one  foot  on  the  lake  and  one  on  land, 
Framing  within  his  crescent's  tinted  streak 
A  far-off  picture  of  the  Melvin  peak, 

Spent    broken    clouds     the     rainbow's      angel 
spanned. 


THE  WISHING  BRIDGE. 

AMONG  the  legends  sung  or  said 

Along  our  rocky  shore, 
The  Wishing  Bridge  of  Marblehead 

May  well  be  sung  once  more. 

An  hundred  years  ago  (so  ran 

The  old-time  story)  all 
Good  wishes  said  above  its  span 

Would,  soon  or  late,  befall. 

If  pure  and  earnest,  never  failed 
The  prayers  of  man  or  maid 

For  him  who  on  the  deep  sea  sailed, 
For  her  at  home  who  stayed. 


THE   WISHING  BRIDGE.  41 

Once  thither  came  two  girls  from  school, 

And  wished  in  childish  glee: 
And  one  would  be  a  queen  and  rule, 

And  one  the  world  would  see. 

Time  passed ;  with  change  of  hopes  and  fears, 

And  in  the  self-same  place, 
Two  women,  gray  with  middle  years, 

Stood,  wondering,  face  to  face. 

With  wakened  memories,  as  they  met, 

They  queried  what  had  been : 
"A  poor  man's  wife  am  I,  and  yet," 
Said  one,  "  I  am  a  queen. 

"My  realm  a  little  homestead  is, 

Where,  lacking  crown  and  throne, 
I  rule  by  loving  services 
And  patient  toil  alone." 

The  other  said :  "  The  great  world  lies 
Beyond  me  as  it  laid; 


42  THE    WISHING  BRIDGE. 

O'er  love's  and  duty's  boundaries 
My  feet  have  never  strayed. 

"I  see  but  common  sights  of  home, 

Its  common  sounds  I  hear, 
My  widowed  mother's  sick-bed  room 
Sufficeth  for  my  sphere. 

"  I  read  to  her  some  pleasant  page 

Of  travel  far  and  wide, 

And  in  a  dreamy  pilgrimage 

We  wander  side  by  side. 

"And  when,  at  last,  she  falls  asleep, 

My  book  becomes  to  me 
A  magic  glass :  my  watch  I  keep, 
But  all  the  world  I  see. 

"A  farm-wife  queen  your  place  you  fill, 

While  fancy's  privilege 
Is  mine  to  walk  the  earth  at  will, 
Thanks  to  the  Wishing  Bridge/' 


THE   WISHING  BRIDGE.  43 

"Nay,  leave  the  legend  for  the  truth," 

The  other  cried,  "and  say 
God  gives  the  wishes  of  our  youth 
But  in  His  own  best  way!" 


THE  MYSTIC'S  CHRISTMAS. 


"  ALL  hail ! "  the  bells  of  Christmas  rang, 
"  All  hail ! "  the  monks  at  Christmas  sang, 
The  merry  monks  who  kept  with  cheer 
The  gladdest  day  of  all  their  year. 


But  still  apart,  unmoved  thereat, 

A  pious  elder  brother  sat 

Silent,  in  his  accustomed  place, 

With  God's  sweet  peace  upon  his  face. 

"Why  sitt'st  thou  thus?"  his   brethren  cried. 
"  It  is  the  blessed  Christmas-tide ; 

The  Christmas  lights  are  all  aglow, 

The  sacred  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"Above  our  heads  the  joy-bells   ring, 
Without  the  happy  children  sing, 


THE  MYSTICS  CHRISTMAS,  45 

And  all  God's  creatures  hail  the  morn 
On  which  the  holy  Christ  was  born ! 

"  Rejoice  with  us ;  no  more  rebuke 
Our  gladness  with  thy  quiet  look." 
The  gray  monk  answered:     "Keep,  I  pray, 
Even  as  ye  list,  the  Lord's  birthday. 

"Let  heathen  Yule  fires  flicker  red 
"Where  thronged  refectory  feasts  are  spread; 
With  mystery-play  and  masque  and  mime 
And  wait-songs  speed  the  holy  time ! 

"  The  blindest  faith  may  haply  save ; 
The  Lord  accepts  the  things  we  have ; 
And  reverence,  howsoe'er  it  strays, 
May  find  at  last  the  shining  ways. 

"  They  needs  must  grope  who  cannot  see, 
The  blade  before  the  ear  must  be ; 
As  ye  are  feeling  I  have  felt, 
And  where  ye  dwell  I  too  have  dwelt. 


46  THE  MYSTIC'S  CHRISTMAS. 

"But  now,  beyond  the  things  of  sense, 
Beyond  occasions  and  events, 
I  know,  through  God's  exceeding  grace, 
Release  from  form  and  time  and  place. 

"I  listen,  from  no  mortal  tongue, 
To  hear  the  song  the  angels  sung; 
And  wait  within  myself  to  know 
The  Christmas  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"The  outward  symbols  disappear 
From  him  whose  inward  sight  is  clear; 
And  small  must  be  the  choice  of  days 
To  him  who  fdls  them  all  with  praise! 

"  Keep  while  you  need  it,  brothers  mine, 
With  honest  zeal  your  Christmas  sign, 
But  judge  not  him  who  every  morn 
Feels  in  his  heart  the  Lord  Christ  born ! 


WHAT  THE  TRAVELER  SAID  AT  SUNSET. 

THE  shadows  grow  and  deepen  round  me, 

I  feel  the  dew-fall  in  the  air; 
The  muezzin  of  the  darkening  thicket 

I  hear  the  night-thrush  call  to  prayer. 

The  evening  wind  is  sad  with  farewells, 
And  loving  hands  unclasp  from  mine ; 

Alone  I  go  to  meet  the  darkness 
Across  an  awful  boundary-line. 

As  from  the  lighted  hearths  behind  me 

I  pass  with  slow,  reluctant  feet, 
What  waits  me  in  the  land  of  strangeness? 

"What  face  shall  smile,  what  voice  shall  greet  ? 

What  space  shall   awe,  what   brightness  blind 

me? 
What  thunder-roll  of  music  stun? 


48    WHAT  THE  TRAVELER  SAID  AT  SUNSET. 

What  vast  processions  sweep  before  me 
Of  shapes  unknown  beneath  the  sun? 

I  shrink  from  unaccustomed  glory, 
I  dread  the  myriad-voiced  strain; 

Give  me  the  nnforgotten  faces, 
And  let  my  lost  ones  speak  again. 

He  will  not  chide  my  mortal  yearning 
Who  is  our  Brother  and  our  Friend  ; 

In  whose  full  life,  divine  and  human, 
The  heavenly  and  the  earthly  blend. 

Mine  be  the  joy  of  soul-communion, 

The  sense  of  spiritual  strength  renewed, 

The  reverence  for  the  pure  and  holy, 
The  dear  delight  of  doing  good. 

No  fitting  ear  is  mine  to  listen 
An  endless  anthem's  rise  and  fall; 

No  curious  eye  is  mine  to  measure 
The  pearl  gate  and  the  jasper  wall. 


WHAT  THE  TRAVELER  SAID  AT  SUNSET.   49 

For  love  must  needs  be  more  than  knowledge : 

What  matter  if  I  never  know 
Why  Aldebaran's  star  is  ruddy 

Or  warmer  Sirius  white  as  snow ! 

Forgive  my  human  words,  O  Father! 

I  go  Thy  larger  truth  to  prove ; 
Thy  mercy  shall  transcend  my  longing: 

I  seek  but  love,  and  Thou  art  Love ! 

I  go  to  find  my  lost  and  mourned  for 
Safe  in  Thy  sheltering  goodness  still, 

And  all  that  hope  and  faith  foreshadow 
Made  perfect  in  Thy  holy  will! 


A  GREETING. 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE'3  SEVENTIETH  ANNIVERSARY,  1882. 

THKICE  welcome  from  the  Land  of  Flowers 

And  golden-fruited  orange  bowers 

To  tliis  sweet,  green-turfed  June  of  ours! 

To  her  who,  in  our  evil  time, 

Dragged  into  light  the  nation's  crime 

With  strength  beyond  the  strength  of   men, 

And,  mightier  than  their  swords,  her  pen ! 

To  her  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 

To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave ; 

Made  all  his  wrongs  and  sorrows  known, 

And  all  earth's  languages  his  own, — 

North,  South,  and  East  and  West,  made  all 

The  common  air  electrical, 

Until  the  o'ercharged  bolts  of  heaven 

Blazed  down,  and  every  chain  was  riven ! 


A   GREETING.  51 

"Welcome  from  each,  and  all  to  her 
Whose  Wooing  of  the  Minister 
Revealed  the  warm  heart  of  the  man 
Beneath  the  creed-bound  Puritan, 
And  taught  the  kinship  of  the  love 
Of  man  below  and  God  above; 
To  her  whose  vigorous  pencil-strokes 
Sketched  into  life  her  Oldtown  Folks,  — 
Whose  fireside  stories,  grave  or  gay, 
In  quaint  Sam  Lawson's  vagrant  way, 
With  old  New  England's  flavor  rife, 
Waifs  from  her  rude  idyllic  life, 
Are  racy  as  the  legends  old 
By  Chaucer  or  Boccaccio  told; 
To  her  who  keeps,  through  change  of  place 
And  time,  her  native  strength  and  grace, 
Alike  where  warm  Sorrento  smiles, 
Or  where,  by  birchen-shaded  isles, 
Whose  summer  winds  have  shivered  o'er 
The  icy  drift  of  Labrador, 
She  lifts  to  light  the  priceless  Pearl 
Of  Harpswell's  angel-beckoned  girl! 


52  A   GREETING. 

To  her  at  threescore  years  and  ten 
Be  tributes  of  the  tongue  and  pen; 
Be  honor,  praise,  and  heart-thanks   given, 
The  loves  of  earth,  the  hopes  of  heaven ! 

Ah,  dearer  than  the  praise  that  stirs 
The  air  to-day,  our  love  is  hers ! 
She  needs  no  guaranty  of  fame 
Whose  own  is  linked  with  Freedom's  name. 
Long  ages  after  ours  shall  keep 
Her  memory  living  while  we  sleep ; 
The  waves  that  wash  our  gray  coast  lines, 
The  winds  that  rock  the  Southern  pines, 
Shall  sing  of  her  ;  the  unending  years 
Shall  tell  her  tale  in  unborn  ears. 
And  when,  with  sins  and  follies  past, 
Are  numbered  color-hate  and  caste, 
White,  black,  and  red  shall  own  as  one 
The  noblest  work  by  woman  done. 


WILSON.1 

THE  lowliest  born  of  all  the  land, 
He  wrung  from  Fate's  reluctant  hand 

The  gifts  which  happier  boyhood  claims ; 
And,  tasting  on  a  thankless  soil 
The  bitter  bread  of  unpaid  toil, 

He  fed  his  soul  with  noble  aims. 

And  Nature,  kindly  provident, 
To  him  the  future's  promise  lent; 

The  powers  that  shape  man's  destinies, 
Patience  and  faith  and  toil,  he  knew; 
The  close  horizon  round  him  grew, 

Broad  with  great  possibilities. 

1  Read  at  the  Massachusetts  Club  on  the  seventieth  an 
niversary  of  the  birthday  of  Vice-President  Wilson. 


54  WILSON. 

By  the  low  hearth-five's  fitful  blaze 
He  read  of  old  heroic  days, 

The  sage's  thought,  the  patriot's  speech  ; 
Unhelped,  alone,  himself  he  taught, 
His  school  the  craft  at  which  he  wrought, 

His  lore  the  book  within  his  reach. 

He  felt  his  country's  need;  he   knew 
The  work  her  children  had  to  do  ; 

And  when,  at  last,  he  heard  the  call 
In  her  behalf  to  serve  and  dare, 
Beside  his  senatorial  chair 

He  stood  the  unquestioned  peer  of  all. 

Beyond  the  accident  of  birth 

He  proved  his  simple  manhood's  worth; 

Ancestral  pride  and  classic  grace 
Confessed  the  large-brained  artisan, 
So  clear  of  sight,  so  wise  in  plan 

And  counsel,  equal  to  his  place. 

With  glance  intuitive  he  saw 
Through  all  disguise  of  form  and  law, 


WILSON.  55 

And  read  men  like  an  open  book; 
Fearless  and  firm,  he  never  quailed 
Nor  turned  aside  for  threats,  nor  failed 

To  do  the  thing  he  undertook. 

How  wise,  how  brave,  he  was,  how  well 
He  bore  himself,  let  history  tell 

While  waves  our  flag  o'er  land  and  sea, 
No  black  thread  in  its  warp  or  weft; 
Pie  found  dissevered  States,  he  left 

A  grateful  Nation,  strong  and  free! 


IN  MEMORY. 
J.  T.  F. 

As  a  guest  who  may  not  stay 
Long  and  sad  farewells  to  say 
Glides  with  smiling  face  away, 

Of  the  sweetness  and  the  zest 
Of  thy  happy  life  possessed 
Thou  hast  left  us  at  thy  best. 

Warm  of  heart  and  clear  of  brain, 
Of  thy  sun-bright  spirit's  wane 
Thou  hast  spared  us  all  the  pain. 

Now  that  thou  hast  gone  away, 
"\Vhat  is  left  of  one  to  say 
Who  was  open  as  the  day? 


7^V  MEMORY.  57 

What  is  there  to  gloss  or  shun? 
Save  with  kindly  voices  none 
Speak  thy  name  beneath  the  sun. 

Safe  thou  art  on  every  side, 
Friendship  nothing  finds  to  hide, 
Love's  demand  is  satisfied. 

Over  manly  strength  and  worth, 
At  thy  desk  of  toil,  or  hearth, 
Played  the  lambent  light  of  mirth, — 

Mirth  that  lit,  but  never  burned ; 
All  thy  blame  to  pity  turned ; 
Hatred  thou  hadst  never  learned. 

Every  harsh  and  vexing  thing 
At  thy  home-fire  lost  its  sting ; 
Where  thou  wast  was  always  spring. 

And  thy  perfect  trust  in  good, 
Faith  in  man  and  womanhood, 
Chance  and  change  and  time  withstood. 


58  IN  MEMORY. 

Small  respect  for  cant  and  whine, 
Bigot's  zeal  and  hate  malign, 
Had  that  sunny  soul  of  thine. 

But  to  thee  was  duty's  claim 
Sacred,  and  thy  lips  became 
Reverent  with  one  holy  Name. 

Therefore,  on  thy  unknown  way, 
Go  in  God's  peace  !     AVe  who  stay 
But  a  little  while  delay. 

Keep  for  us,  O  friend,  where'er 
Thou  art  waiting,  all  that  here 
Made  thy  earthly  presence  dear; 

Something  of  thy  pleasant  past 
On  a  ground  of  wonder  cast, 
In  the  stiller  waters  glassed! 

Keep  the  human  heart  of  thee ; 
Let  the  mortal  only  be 
Clothed  in  immortality. 


IN  MEMORY.  59 

And  when  fall  our  feet  as  fell 

Thine  upon  the  asphodel, 

Let  thy  old  smile  greet  us  well ; 

Proving  in  a  world  of  bliss 
What  we  fondly  dream  in  this,  — 
Love  is  one  with  holiness  1 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDKEN. 
H.  W.  L. 

WITH  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine 

Over  his  locks  of  gray, 
In  the  old  historic  mansion 

He  sat  on  his  last  birthday; 

"With  his  books  and  his  pleasant  pictures, 
And  his  household  and  his  kin, 

While  a  sound  as  of  myriads  singing 
From  far  and  near  stole  in. 

It  came  from  his  own  fair  city, 
From  the  prairie's  boundless  plain, 

From  the  Golden  Gate  of  sunset, 
And  the  cedarn  woods  of  Maine. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN.    61 

And  his  heart  grew  warm  within  him, 
And  his  moistening  eyes  grew  dim, 

For  he  knew  that  his  country's  children 
Were  singing  the  songs  of  him : 

The  lays  of  his  life's  glad  morning, 
The  psalms  of  his  evening  time, 

Whose  echoes  shall  float  forever 
On  the  winds  of  every  clime. 

All  their  beautiful  consolations, 

Sent  forth  like  birds  of  cheer, 
Came  flocking  back  to  his  windows, 

And  sang  in  the  Poet's  ear. 

Grateful,  but  solemn  and  tender, 

The  music  rose  and  fell 
With  a  joy  akin  to  sadness 

And  a  greeting  like  farewell. 

With  a  sense  of  awe  he  listened 
To  the  voices  sweet  and  young; 


62  THE  POET  AND  TUE  CHILDREN. 

The  last  of  earth  and  the  first  of  heaven 
Seemed  in  the  songs  they  sung. 

And  waiting  a  little  longer 

For  the  wonderful  change  to  come, 

lie  heard  the  Summoning  Angel, 
Who  calls  God's  children  home! 

And  to  him  in  a  holier  welcome 
Was  the  mystical  meaning  given 

Of  the  words  of  the  blessed  Master: 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven !  " 


RABBI  ISHMAEL. 

THE  Rabbi  Tshmael,  with  the  woe  and  sin 
Of  the  world  heavy  upon  him,  entering  in 
The  Holy  of  Holies,  saw  an  awful  Face 
With  terrible  splendor  filling  all  the  place. 
"  O  Ishmael  Ben  Elisha !  "  said  a  voice, 
"  What  seekest    thou  ?     What    blessing  is  thy 

choice?  " 

And,  knowing  that  he  stood  before  the  Lord, 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  cherubim, 
Wide-winged   between    the  blinding  light    and 

him, 

He  bowed  himself,  and  uttered  not  a  word, 
But  in  the  silence  of  his  soul  was  prayer  : 
"  O  thou  Eternal !     I  am  one  of  all, 
And  nothing  ask  that  others  may  not  share. 
Thou  art  almighty ;  we  are  weak  and  small, 
And  yet  thy  children :  let  thy  mercy  spare ! " 


64  RABBI  ISHMAEL. 

Trembling,  lie  raised  his  eyes,  and  in  the  place 

Of  the  insufferable  glory,  lo!  a  face 

Of  more  than  mortal  tenderness,  that  bent 

Graciously  down  in  token  of  assent, 

And,    smiling,    vanished!       With    strange    joy 

elate, 
The    wondering    Rabbi    sought    the     temple's 

gate. 

Radiant  as  Moses  from  the  Mount,  he  stood 
And  cried  aloud  unto  the  multitude  : 
"  O  Israel,  hear !     The  Lord  our  God  is  good  ! 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  his  glory  and  his  grace ; 
Beyond  his  judgments  shall  his  love  endure ; 
The  mercy  of  the  All  Merciful  is  sure!" 


VALUATION. 

THE  old  Squire  said,  as  he  stood  by  his   gate, 
And  his  neighbor,  the  Deacon,  went  by, 

"  In  spite  of  my  bank  stock  and  real  estate, 
You  are  better  off,  Deacon,  than  I. 

"  We  're  both  growing  old,  and  the  end 's  draw 
ing  near, 

You  have  less  of  this  world  to  resign, 
But  in  Heaven's  appraisal  your  assets,  I  fear, 

"Will  reckon  up  greater  than  mine. 

"  They  say  I  am  rich,  but  I  'm  feeling  so  poor, 

I  wish  I  could  swap  with  you  even: 
The   pounds  I  have   lived  for  and  laid   up  in 

store 

For  the  shillings  and  pence  you  have  given." 
5 


66  VALUATION. 

"  Well,  Squire,"  said  the  Deacon,  with  shrewd 

common  sense, 

While  his  eye  had  a  twinkle  of  fun, 
"  Let  your  pounds  take  the  way  of  my  shillings 

and  pence, 
And  the  thing  can  be  easily  done ! " 


WINTER  ROSES.1 

MY  garden  roses  long  ago 

Have  perished  from  the  leaf -strewn  walks  ; 
Their  pale,  fair  sisters  smile  no  more 

Upon  the  sweet-brier  stalks. 

Gone  with  the  flower-time  of  my  life, 

Spring's  violets,  summer's  blooming   pride, 

And  Nature's  winter  and  my  own 
Stand,  flowerless,  side  by  side. 

So  might  I  yesterday  have  sung; 

To-day,  in  bleak  December's  noon, 
Come  sweetest  fragrance,  shapes,  and  hues, 

The  rosy  wealth  of  June ! 

Bless  the  young  hands  that  culled  the  gift, 
And  bless  the  hearts  that  prompted  it ; 

1  In  reply  to  a  flower  gift  from  Mrs.  Putnam's  school 
at  Jamaica  Plain. 


68  WINTER  ROSES. 

If  undeserved  it  comes,  at  least 
It  seems  not  all  unfit. 

Of  old  my  Quaker  ancestors 

Had  gifts  of  forty  stripes  save  one; 

To-day  as  many  roses  crown 
The  gray  head  of  their  son. 

And  with  them,  to  my  fancy's  eye, 
The  fresh-faced  givers  smiling  come, 

And  nine  and  thirty  happy  girls 
Make  glad  a  lonely  room. 

They  bring  the  atmosphere  of  youth ; 

The  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago 
Are  in  my  heart,  and  on  my  cheek 

The  airs  of  morning  blow. 

0  buds  of  girlhood,  yet  unblown, 
And  fairer  than  the  gift  ye  chose, 

For  you  may  years  like  leaves  unfold 
The  heart  of  Sharon's  rose ! 


HYMN. 

(FOR  THE  AMERICAN  HORTICULTURAL   SOCIETY.) 

1882. 

0  PAINTER  of  the  fruits  and  flowers, 

We  own  Thy  wise  design, 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

May  share  the  work  of  Thine ! 

Apart  from  Thee  we  plant  in  vain 

The  root  and  sow  the  seed; 
Thy  early  and  Thy  later  rain, 

Thy  sun  and  dew  we  need. 

Our  toil  is  sweet  with  thankfulness, 

Our  burden  is  our  boon; 
The  curse  of  Earth's  gray  morning  is 

The  blessing:  of  its  noon. 


70  HYMN. 

Why  search  the  wide  world  everywhere 
For  Eden's  unknown  ground  ?  — 

That  garden  of  the  primal  pair 
May  nevermore  be  found. 

But,  blest  by  Thee,  our  patient  toil 

May  right  the  ancient  wrong, 
And  give  to  every  clime  and  soil 

The  beauty  lost  so  long. 

Our  homestead  flowers  and  fruited  trees 

May  Eden's  orchard  shame ; 
We  taste  the  tempting  sweets  of  these 

Like  Eve,  without  her  blame. 

And,  North  and  South  and  East  and  West 

The  pride  of  every  zone, 
The  fairest,  rarest  and  the  best 

May  all  be  made  our  own. 

Its  earliest  shrines  the  young  world  sought 
In  hill-groves  and  in  bowers, 


HYMN.  71 

The  fittest  offerings  thither  brought 
Were  Thy  own  fruits  and  flowers. 

And  still  with  reverent  hands  we  cull 

Thy  gifts  each  year  renewed ; 
The  good  is  always  beautiful, 

The  beautiful  is  good. 


GODSPEED. 

OUTBOUND,   your   bark   awaits    you.     "Were   I 

one 
Whose  prayer  availeth  much,  my  wish  should 

be 

Your  favoring  trade-wind  and  consenting  sea. 
By  sail  or  steed  was  never  love  outrun, 
And,  here  or  there,  love  follows  her  in  whom 
All  graces  and  sweet  charities  unite, 
The  old  Greek  beauty  set  in  holier  light ; 
And   her   for   whom    New   England's    byways 

bloom, 

Who  walks  among  us  welcome  as  the  Spring, 
Calling    up    blossoms    where  her    light   feet 

stray. 
God  keep  you  both,  make    beautiful  your 

way, 

Comfort,  console,  and  bless;  and  safely  bring, 
Ere  yet  I  make  upon  a  vaster  sea 
The  unreturning  voyage,  my  friends  to  me. 


AT  LAST. 

WHEN  011  my  day  of  life  the  night  is  falling, 
And,  in  the    winds    from    unsunned    spaces 
blown, 

I  hear  far  voices  out  of  darkness  calling 
My  feet  to  paths  unknown, 

Thou  who  hast   made    my    home    of     life     so 
pleasant, 

Leave  not  its  tenant  when  its  walls  decay; 
O  Love  Divine,  O  Helper  ever  present, 

Be  Thou  my  strength  and  stay ! 

Be  near  me  when  all  else  is  from  me  drifting : 
Earth,   sky,   home's   pictures,  days  of   shade 
and  shine, 

And  kindly  faces  to  my  own  uplifting 
The  love  which  answers  mine. 


74  AT  LAST. 

I  have  but  Thee,  my  Father !  let  Thy  spirit 
Be  with  me  then  to  comfort  and  uphold  ; 

No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I  merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold. 

Suffice  it  if — my  good  and  ill  unreckoned, 
And  both  forgiven  through    thy    abounding 
grace  — 

I  find  myself  by  hands  familiar  beckoned 
Unto  my  fitting  place. 

Some  humble  door  among  Thy  many  mansions, 
Some  sheltering  shade  where  sin  and  striving 

cease, 

And  flows  forever  through  heaven's  green  ex 
pansions 
The  river  of  Thy  peace. 

There,  from  the  music  round  about  me  stealing, 
I  fain  would  learn  the  new  and  holy  song, 

And  find  at  last,  beneath  Thy  trees  of  healing, 
The  life  for  which  I  long. 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

READ   AT   WOODSTOCK,    CONX.,    JULY    4,    1883. 

WE  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope, 
O  Country  of  our  love  and  prayer! 

Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  slope, 
But  up  to  freer  sun  and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace-fires,  and  yet 
By  God's  grace  only  stronger  made, 

In  future  task  before  thee  set 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  old-time  aid. 

The  fathers  sleep,  but  men  remain 
As  wise,  as  true,  and  brave  as  they ; 

Why  count  the  loss  and  not  the  gain?- 
The  best  is  that  we  have  to-day. 


76  OUR  COUNTRY. 

Whate'er  of  folly,  shame,  or  crime, 
Within  thy  mighty  bounds  transpires, 

With  speed  defying  space  and  time 
Comes  to  us  on  the  accusing  wires ; 

While  of  thy  wealth  of  noble  deeds, 
Thy  homes  of  peace,  thy  votes  unsold, 

The  love  that  pleads  for  human  needs, 
The  wrong  redressed,  but  half  is  told ! 

We  read  each  felon's  chronicle, 

His  acts,  his  words,  his  gallows-mood ; 

We  know  the  single  sinner  well 
And  not  the  nine  and  ninety  good. 

Yet  if,  on  daily  scandals  fed, 

We  seem  at  times  to  doubt  thy  worth, 
We  know  thee  still,  wrhen  all  is  said, 

The  best  and  dearest  spot  on  earth. 

From  the  warm  Mexic  Gulf,  or  where 
Belted  with  flowers  Los  Angeles 


OUR  COUNTRY.  77 

Basks  in  the  semi-tropic  air, 

To  where  Katahdin's  cedar  trees 


Are  dwarfed  and  bent  by  Northern  winds, 
Thy  plenty's  horn  is  yearly  filled; 

Alone,  the  rounding  century  finds 
Thy  liberal  soil  by  free  hands  tilled. 

A  refuge  for  the  wronged  and  poor, 

Thy  generous  heart  has  borne  the  blame 

That,  with  them,  through  thy  open  door, 
The  old  world's  evil  outcasts  came. 

But,  with  thy  just  and  equal  rule, 

And  labor's  need  and  breadth  of  lands, 

Free  press  and  rostrum,  church  and  school, 
Thy  sure,  if  slow,  transforming  hands 

Shall  mould  even  them  to  thy  design, 
Making  a  blessing  of  the  ban  ; 

And  Freedom's  chemistry  combine 
The  alien  elements  of  man. 


78  OUR  COUNTRY. 

The  power  that  broke  their  prison  bar 
And  set  the  dusky  millions  free, 

And  welded  in  the  flame  of  war 
The  Union  fast  to  Liberty, 

Shall  it  not  deal  with  other  ills, 

Redress  the  red  man's  grievance,  break 

The  Circean  cup  which  shames  and  kills, 
And  Labor  full  requital  make? 

Alone  to  such  as  fitly  bear 

Thy  civic  honors  bid  them  fall? 

And  call  thy  daughters  forth  to  share 
The  rights  and  duties  pledged  to  all  ? 

Give  every  child  his  right  of  school, 
Merge  private  greed  in  public  good, 

And  spare  a  treasury  overfull 

The  tax  upon  a  poor  man's  food? 

No  lack  was  in  thy  primal  stock, 
No  weakling  founders  builded  here; 


OUR  COUNTRY.  79 

Thine  were  the  men  of  Plymouth  Rock, 
The  Huguenot  and  Cavalier; 

And  they  whose  firm  endurance  gained 
The  freedom  of  the  souls  of  men, 

Whose  hands,    unstained  with    blood,  main 
tained 
The  swordless  commonwealth  of  Penn. 

And  thine  shall  be  the  power  of  all 
To  do  the  work  which  duty  bids. 

And  make  the  people's  council  hall 
As  lasting  as  the  Pyramids  ! 

Well  have  thy  later  years  made  good 
Thy  brave-said  word  a  century  back, 

The  pledge  of  human  brotherhood, 
The  equal  claim  of  white  and  black. 

That  word  still  echoes  round  the  world, 
And  all  who  hear  it  turn  to  thee, 

And  read  upon  thy  flag  unfurled 
The  prophecies  of  destiny. 


80  OUR  COUNTRY. 

Thy  great  world-lesson  all  shall  learn, 
The  nations  in  thy  school  shall  sit, 

Earth's  farthest  mountain-tops  shall  burn 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  own  uplit. 

Great  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  or  conquest,  rich  in  gold, 

But  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  children  hold, 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

So  runs  our  loyal  dream  of  thee ; 
God  of  our  fathers !  —  make  it  true. 

O  Land  of  lands !  to  thee  we  give 

Our  prayers,  our  hopes,  our  service  free; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live, 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die  for  thee ! 


THE  "STORY  OF  IDA." 

WEARY  of  jangling  noises  never  stilled, 

The  skeptic's  sneer,  the  bigot's  hate,  the  din 
Of  clashing  texts,  the  webs  of  creed  men  spin 

Round  simple  truth,  the    children    grown  who 
build 

With  gilded  cards  their  new  Jerusalem, 
Busy,  with  sacerdotal  tailorings 
And  tinsel  gauds,  bedizening  holy  things, 

I  turn,  with     glad    and    grateful    heart,  from 
them 

To  the  sweet  story  of  the  Florentine 
Immortal  in  her  blameless  maidenhood, 
Beautiful  as  God's  angels  and  as  good ; 

Feeling  that  life,  even  now,  may  be  divine 

With  love  no  wrong  can  ever  change  to  hate, 

No  sin  make  less  than  all-compassionate ! 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

I  WRITE  my  name  as  one, 
On  sands  by  waves  o'errun 
Or  winter's  frosted  pane, 
Traces  a  record  vain. 

Oblivion's  blankness  claims 
Wiser  and  better  names, 
And  well  my  own  may  pass 
As  from  the  strand  or  glass. 

Wash  on,  O  waves  of  time! 
Melt,  noons,  the  frosty  rime ! 
Welcome  the  shadow  vast, 
The  silence  that  shall  last ! 

When  I  and  all  who  know 
And  love  me  vanish  so, 


AN  AUTOGRAPH.  83 

What  harm  to  them  or  me 
Will  the  lost  memory  be? 

If  any  words  of  mine, 
Through  right  of  life  divine, 
Remain,  what  matters  it 
Whose  hand  the  message  writ? 

Why  should  the  "  crowner's  quest " 
Sit  on  my  worst  or  best  ? 
Why  should  the  showman  claim 
The  poor  ghost  of  my  name? 

Yet,  as  when  dies  a  sound 
Its  spectre  lingers  round, 
Haply  my  spent  life  will 
Leave  some  faint  echo  still. 

A  whisper  giving  breath 
Of  praise  or  blame  to  death, 
Soothing  or  saddening  such 
As  loved  the  living  much. 


84  AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

Therefore  with  yearnings  vain 
And  fond  I  still  would  fain 
A  kindly  judgment  seek, 
A  tender  thought  bespeak. 

And,  while  my  words  are  read, 
Let  this  at  least  be  said : 
"  Whate'er  his  life's  defeatures, 
He  loved  his  fellow  creatures. 

"If,  of  the  Law's  stone  table, 
To  hold  he  scarce  was  able 
The  first  great  precept  fast, 
He  kept  for  man  the  last. 

"  Through  mortal  lapse  and  dullness 
What  lacks  the  Eternal  Fullness, 
If  still  our  weakness  can 
Love  Him  in  loving  man  ? 

"Age  brought  him  no  despairing 
Of  the  world's  future  faring; 


AN  A  UTO  GRAPH.  85 

In  human  nature  still 

lie  found  more  good  than  ill. 

"  To  all  who  dumbly  suffered, 
His  tongue  and  pen  he  offered; 
His  life  was  not  his  own, 
Nor  lived  for  self  alone. 

"  Hater  of  din  and  riot 
He  lived  in  days  unquiet ; 
And,  lover  of  all  beauty, 
Trod  the  hard  ways  of  duty. 

"  He  meant  no  wrong  to  any 
He  sought  the  good  of  many, 
Yet  knew  _botli  sin  and  folly,  — 
May  God  forgive  him  wholly  !  " 


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Songs  of   Three    Centuries.     Selected   by  J.    G.  Whittier. 

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A  catalogue  containing  portraits  of  many  of  the  above 
authors,  with  a  description  of  their  works,  will  be  sent 
free,  on  application,  to  any  address. 

HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN  AND    COMPANY, 
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UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELA 


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